May 31 (Bloomberg) -- E-mails unanswered, the desk
scattered with paper, my mind wanders to a perfect Sunday
afternoon, twisting through mountain roads in a convertible. A
Lamborghini convertible.

The car is orange, because exotic rides should be
outrageous, and the road is in northern Italy, near the
Dolomites, the kind of two-lane, cork-screwing routes where
Lamborghini engineers at Sant’Agata Bolognese might have enjoyed
during testing.

A closer look at my auto shows it to be the Gallardo LP570-4 Spyder Performante, the lightest roadster the company offers.
Perfect.

The standard Gallardo convertible has a mid-mounted V-10
engine which produces 552 horsepower. By comparison, the
Performante gets an espresso doppio of extra power (562 hp) and
is 143 pounds lighter, due to materials like carbon fiber and
polycarbonate windows.

Before gas and oil are pumped into its frame, the Spyder
Performante weighs 3,274 pounds -- lightweight for a modern car.
That means it’s quicker than other fantasy Gallardos,
particularly when churning out of corners. All guts, all glory.

Fantasy Car

There’s a premium, clearly. Prices start at around
$250,000. That’s okay, because fantasy cars are always paid for
in cash and daydreams never include insurance premiums.

This thing never had a foot in reality anyhow. The
proportions scream supercar, very wide and low. So wide that it
will crowd a regular-sized lane. You’ll want to stay off side
roads in crowded Italian cities; you simply won’t fit.

And so low that the twin intakes on either side of the
front snout hover just above the road like a snuffling ant
eater, ready to hoover up asphalt.

The cabin is located far forward, and the hood is quite
short. That means the rear deck of the Performante is long and
parallel to the ground, like a throwing dart. An optional,
$6,500 carbon-fiber wing rises off the extreme back.

The roofline looks sleek even when the canvas hood is up.
The windshield is raked at an impossibly sharp angle, and the
low, black cap continues backward in an unbroken swooping arc.

Naked Engine

Who wants to drive with the top up? Hold down a button and
the entire back panel of the Lamborghini slides back, briefly
exposing the naked engine as the canvas folds and then tucks
into the rear compartment. (There is no trunk.)

It’s a move worthy of the Transformers Optimus Prime, but
it takes an irritatingly long time and the car must be
stationary, with handbrake applied. (A lot of modern
convertibles allow you to put their tops up or down while moving
at 10-plus miles per hour.)

Back to the fantasy. It’s warm out, but the air is mountain
crisp. I’m gliding through quiet villages with musical names
like Pezzini and Fontanelle, and the road is steadily gaining
elevation.

There aren’t that many other cars, but loads of spandex-clad cyclists, slowly pumping up the steep hills. They glance at
me and nod their helmeted heads, unable to ignore the orange
missile making all that rumbling, animalistic noise. The
Lamborghini is not a car for shrinking violets.

Local Hero

Even so, the Italians love the car and, by extension, me.
People wave, smile and make churning moves with their arms --
international sign language for “Rev it!” and “Go go go!”

I oblige.

Because, truly, the Spyder Performante exists purely to
thrill. It’s one of the most impractical cars in the universe.
And that’s a compliment.

A tight switchback up ahead. No other traffic. Downshift
twice using the steering-wheel paddle -- click, click. The
engine roars encouragingly. I brake hard just before the turn.
Swing in and get back on gas early; the rear slides out just a
touch. Pounce back on gas and the Performante lunges forward.

Up to the next switchback, repeat.

Reaching my destination, I park the car in a village
square, in search of a lunch of fresh cheese and cured meats.
This far north you’ll find a heavy Austrian influence; many of
the houses look more like A-frame chalets and goulash shares
space on the menu with pasta.

‘Bella Macchina’

When I get back to the car, a small crowd has gathered.
After five minutes of attempting to communicate in broken
English and Italian (lots of “molto bene” and “bella
macchina,”) I’m off again.

It had rained while I lunched leaving the roads shining
wet, the smell of green very heavy in the air. Spiraling back
down the roads which I just climbed, I use the big brakes
judiciously and appreciate the fact that the Lamborghini is all-wheel drive.

The wet bicyclists are miserable and I imagine a look of
envy as I drive by. Who can blame them when I’m living my
perfect fantasy?